Rings
by winter machine
Summary: Pre-show, based on a prompt:  Of course Mark is the one Amelia calls.  He's the only one who still picks up the phone.


I'm on an Amelia backstory kick and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere soon - or at least it's not likely to as long as I keep getting such effective prompts. Thanks, S.

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><p><strong>Rings<strong>

Loud.

Blaring.

The piercing ring drags him kicking and struggling out of sleep. He fumbles for the phone, answers low and sleep-heavy.

"Sloan."

"Is this Mark Sloan?"

"Yeah." He rubs bleary eyes, tilts the bedside clock toward him. It's not even five a.m. Fuck - he'd been hoping to sleep until at least six-thirty; he's on afternoons today. "Who is this?"

"Officer Flannery, with the NYPD." Mark sits up a little straighter. "Do you know an Addison Shepherd?"

His mind races immediately, pounding out of his control like horses from the starting gate. She has to be okay. Of course she's okay. It's barely twenty blocks. He put her in the cab himself.

"Yes," he chokes out. "Is she all right?"

The officer's pause is longer than anything. It's a black hole. Twenty blocks. Anything could happen in twenty blocks. Why didn't he tell her to call him when she got home?

"She's all right," the officer says, and Mark lets out some of the breath he was holding, still tense at the cautious tone. "We picked her up on a drunk and disorderly. She's intoxicated, and possibly under the influence. And because we couldn't be sure of her age-"

His mind was cartoon-rabbit racing and this is the part where it squeals to a stop. Right at the edge of the cliff. Goddamn it.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

**xx**

"Addison," he drawls when he sees her. "You look like shit."

Her skirt is short enough for blue-white thigh to disappear into god knows what - he hopes she's wearing underwear - and when she looks up her mascara-smudged eyes are bleary and distant.

"Ha ha." She scowls. "Did you bring the money?"

"Maybe." He shoves his hands into his pockets.

"So what the hell are you waiting for?" She jerks her feet, in ridiculous-looking boots. "Spring me already."

"That's all you have to say?" He glares at her and she just looks past him. Her wide, pale eyes are unfocused. She's on something. Or coming off it.

It's not like he should be surprised anymore. She's slumped on a bench and there are actual iron bars between them. Nothing should surprise him now.

"Maybe I should leave you in here," he snaps. "Let you figure this out yourself."

But he won't, of course. That's why she called him.

He pays the bail and they turn her over to him. He accepts her with something between relief and reluctance: she's still scowling, small and damp and smelling of cigarette smoke and sweat and other, less palatable things.

"You okay?" he asks gruffly as he holds the door for her. She hunches over in the cold and on instinct he wraps her in his leather jacket with only a second's thought for the material. She clutches the fabric closer, hungrily. She's always hungry for something.

"Just get me out of here," she mumbles. He starts to drape an arm around her, then pulls it back and just walks by her side. He hails a cab and pushes her in first, not really sure where they're going.

"Don't have any money," she whispers. He figured as much.

"I've got it."

She slumps on her side of the cab. The sun's starting to brighten up and it's not painting a flattering portrait. Her skin is nearly translucent; if she's slept at all lately it's not evident. Sunken cheeks, smeared makeup. Her hair falls in tangled clumps. She might have looked put together the night before, but maybe not. There's a faint purpling bruise on one wrist, but he doesn't ask. He hasn't asked in a long time.

"When are you going to cut this shit out?" He's not brave enough to ask it to her face so he asks it out the window instead, refusing to look at her. "When?"

Once he starts it's hard to stop. He's got the pathetic paper bag of her belongings in one hand. Including the pilfered license. He yanks it out and shakes it in her general direction. "Do you know what a bitch this was for her to replace? The DMV keeps shitty hours. Some of us work for a living."

She doesn't answer, but when he turns he sees she's crying. Fuck. She's not a pretty crier either: there's snail trail of mucus working its way toward her quivering lips and mascara leaves greyish-dirt streaks on her pale cheeks. She hugs her legs and he notices her knees still have that dark scuffy look they had when she was a kid, when she was always falling down.

"Jeez, Amy."

He can't pack her off home looking like this. Not sure what else to do, he takes her to his apartment.

She recovers quickly, smearing various fluids across her face with the sleeve his jacket and swallowing the hiccuping breaths he wishes he didn't associate so clearly with her childhood. She stalks his home with false bravado, wearing his jacket and the spike-heeled boots the same way she must have the false ID: with an unspoken desperation so painful it's easier for everyone to ignore it.

He relieves her of his coat, tosses it aside. "You want something to drink? Coffee?" He hovers like a waiter and she ignores him like one, slinking from object to object like a cat, pouncing on occasion.

"The place looks good, Sloan."

The words sound wrong coming out of her still-childish face, newly prominent bones hiding the youthful roundness.

She lifts a book and flicks through its pages, picks up a glass paperweight and sets it down. Her movements are quick and short, agitated little heartbeats. She sits on the couch but just for a second, bounces slightly as if testing its weight. Then she's back on her feet again. She crouches to the rug by the couch, seizes on a woman's delicate earring. A little diamond stud. Shit, he hadn't seen it there. He reaches for it and Amy steps out of range, tilting the jewel to the light.

"Fucking a higher class of woman these days, I see." Her tone is studiously conversational.

"Shut up," he snaps, tries to pretend she's his bantering little sister again, not the sullen little sylph who pushes his buttons.

"Very impressive." She holds onto the earring just a moment longer and then hands it over to him. "Anyone I would know?"

He tucks the earring into his pocket. The post digs uncomfortably into his thigh.

"Go take a shower, Amy. You're a mess."

"I didn't get any complaints tonight." She looks him right in the eye when she says it, challenging him to ask, and he doesn't rise.

"You stink like the station and god knows what else." He regrets the words almost as soon as they escape because her eyes sheen over with tears again. Fuck. He can't stand seeing her cry, hates that it affects him.

Why couldn't he just leave her there? Why is the last one who still takes her calls? Addison still asks about her, yeah - maybe even knows what happened to her license, because she didn't report it stolen - but her number is Derek's number and Amy would never call because Derek would never answer.

"Come on," he says as gently as he can. He fetches her clean towels, turns on the water for her, pretends she's a guest. It's easier than trying to figure out what she is, what she wants. He barely recognizes her sometimes, angry raccoon eyes where she'd been wide-eyed and worshipful. She stares at him as he instructs her on the faucets, points out shampoo and washcloths like he's giving a fucking garden tour. Stares at him like she expects something.

_What does she want_?

She doesn't move. "Let me know if you need anything," he mumbles lamely, because really isn't that all Amy does? Let them know, all of them, all the time, how much she needs something?

But what is it?

The door clicks shut behind him.

He listens for the dips in water pressure that tell him she's in the shower and allows himself a half-sigh of relief. It's small victories with Amy. A shower. A meal, maybe, when she gets out. Something warm in her stomach. He rifles through his cabinets. There's more there these days. Some soup, maybe? Feeling productive, he opens a can, sets it in a small pot on the stove. No toast - bread molds too quickly. He finds crackers and piles a handful on a plate. Water. She should drink water. He lets a stream run out of the faucet until it's cold, gives the soup a stir.

**xx**

The ringing of the phone jars him. It's close by, he can hear it, but he can't find it. A cordless was a mistake; he's always setting it down somewhere and forgetting it. He needs the curly traditional wire to keep him grounded. He tries the usual places; between the couch cushions. On the short table by his bed. No luck. His answering machine takes over, entering the action with a click and whirr.

_Mark Sloan here. I can't talk right now, so leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I can. _

He cringes, as he always does, at the sound of his own message. He's a narcissist in some ways, sure, but the recorded timbre of his own voice sets his teeth on edge. He's never really wanted to know what he sounds like to the rest of the world.

There's a pause and then another voice fills the room. A very different one. He doesn't cringe for this one. He steps closer to it.

_Hey, it's me. I think I left one of my earrings there, probably by the couch_ - and here her familiar voice is breathy, maybe remembering, and his face floods with heat -_ I wouldn't care but they were a present and so if you find them - anyway, you know the ones I mean. The little square diamonds._ _Okay, well...thanks. _

He's standing close to the machine, head cocked as he listens. He never did find the phone.

And then he sees her.

"Amy." He fumbles for the button on the machine too late. She's standing there, close enough to hear everything, and there's enough life left in her eyes for him to know she understands.

Shit.

_Shit. _

"Okay," he breathes, even though it's anything but. "Amy, listen, it's not-"

"Shut up," she says. Her face is clean now and scrubbed free of makeup, pale eyes glistening under wet lashes. She's wrapped in one of his tan towels, moisture soaking the terry to chocolate. She hasn't bothered to wring out her long hair and a steady beat of water droplets hits the floor in her wake. A thin, jagged scar on her left arm mars the damp ivory skin. _What happened? _he'd questioned the first time he saw it, when it was still as red and angry as she was. _Don't ask unless you want to know,_ was her answer. He didn't ask again.

Now they regard each other wordlessly, his pulse pounding in his ears, and then the towel drops to the floor in an inelegant pile. It barely makes a sound, a quiet little thunk. It should have been louder, as loud as his heartbeat.

"What are you - Amy, what the hell-" He trains his eyes to the ground. They burn. Water drips onto the floorboards in a slow, rhythmic stream. Like tears.

No one moves.

"Please don't say anything, about..." He trails off, stares resolutely at her feet, bony and white. There's a jagged rip in one of her toenails. It looks like it hurts. He still doesn't know where she was tonight. What she was doing.

She still seems so small but she knows so much. Too much - maybe that's always been the problem. His muscles tense as he feels her step closer.

"I won't," she croons. "It'll be our little secret." And she presses her warm lips to his. She smells like the blue glycerin bar in his shower, tastes of soap and shame and he hates himself just a little bit more when he kisses back.

They don't notice the soup burning down to nothing until the smoke alarm shrieks its way through the apartment.

By then it's already too late.

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><p><strong>Prompt: <strong>_Mark bails Amelia out of jail, with some reference to Amelia knowing Mark and Addison's secret._

**Reviews are warmly welcomed and greatly appreciated. **


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